


Private Session

by Minuial_Nuwing



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Jinglebells in June 2007, M/M, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minuial_Nuwing/pseuds/Minuial_Nuwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gildor is late for an important conference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Session

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Larien Elengasse in the Jinglebells in June Exchange 2007
> 
> Request: _Gildor/Elladan, romance, seduction, humor_
> 
> Beta: the incredible Fimbrethiel
> 
> **************************************************************

_~Imladris 1307 III~_

Elrond paced before the arches that opened onto the council chamber’s balcony, his eyes straying again and again to the main gates of Imladris and the road beyond. The hour appointed for the council’s beginning grew near, and still Gildor and his followers had not arrived in the valley. Elrond would soon be forced to either postpone the debate or allow it to proceed with the wanderers unrepresented, a situation in which his decision, no matter his choice, would surely displease at least half of the gathered diplomats. 

The sense of foreboding that again darkened Middle-earth seemed to grow stronger with each passing year, setting nerves on edge and tempers to flare, even among the normally reserved advisors and envoys who made up the group called to Imladris for the fall council. The season’s festivities might be scarce a week behind them, but winter was fast approaching and few would welcome a delay which might well see them trapped in the valley by an unexpected - but not unheard of - early snowfall. 

Nor would Imladris necessarily rejoice at housing two score of unwilling guests for the winter, but Elrond was far too skilled a host and ambassador to allow that thought more than momentary acknowledgement. 

Already the invited diplomats had begun gathering in the hall outside, their murmured conversation audible even through the heavy wooden doors. Elrond looked up, surprised, as one door opened slightly and Erestor slipped inside, closing the door firmly behind. “You will proceed?” the chief advisor asked, though he had little doubt of the answer he would receive. 

“Aye, we will proceed,” Elrond said reluctantly. “It is not likely that I would hold the opening for another, and many here know that well. I cannot have it said...” 

“...that you allow kinship to sway such decisions,” Erestor finished shrewdly, “though few would fault you, I wager.” 

Elrond’s lips curled wryly. “I fear that perhaps the Lórien contingent would have a few choice words on the subject of kinship and loyalty, were the matter to come to speech. My own law-father resides in Amroth’s glade.” Glancing out over the courtyard one final time, he sighed. “We have less than a quarter-hour. Let them in, my friend.” 

Erestor opened the carved doors and the assembled elves began wandering in, most to greet their host respectfully and immediately move on to the table offering spiced juices and light Imladrian wine, heavier spirits being unwelcome in Elrond’s council chambers. 

There were fools enough in the group, without serving Dorwinion and stout at the conference table. 

His mouth twitching a bit at the uncharitable thought, Elrond settled into his seat at the table’s nominal head, though its gentle oval shape, one that had been selected with purpose and forethought, made any such distinction difficult. The visiting ambassadors began to take their usual seats, the few mortals attending – envoys of King Malvegil from Arthedain – finding their places with Erestor’s unobtrusive aid. 

Elrohir and Glorfindel hurried in with only moments to spare, their vaguely damp hair and rosy cheeks giving them away to any who cared to notice, despite their semi-formal robes and politely correct mien. The younger twin slid quickly into his seat on Elrond’s left, sitting with a comfortable ‘thump’ that was quietly explained by Glorfindel’s wince of discomfort as he lowered himself carefully onto the blessedly padded chair beside his mate. 

“Pray do not break my captain, ‘Rohir,” Elrond murmured under his breath, biting back a snort of amusement with difficulty. “If he is long unable to ride, you may be asked to assume command of our forces several millennia earlier than expected.” 

His eyes dancing unrepentantly, Elrohir replied, “I will keep that in mind, Ada. I would not want to use my personal position for professional gain.” 

“A likely story.” 

Glorfindel’s teasing whisper reached his law-father’s ears and Elrond smiled at the affectionate banter. Though he had counted Glorfindel among his closest friends since long before the twins’ birth, though he had never doubted for an instant the truth of the reborn elf’s love for Elrohir, Elrond’s approval of the match had been cautioned by a hard-won understanding of the effort required to evolve a relationship such as they shared. To move from a long-standing bond of teacher and student, of mentor and novice, to one in which two adult elves held equal sway was no easy task, and neither Elrohir nor Glorfindel was known for patience and tact. 

But the affair had survived and flourished, to the surprise of many, and the pair would soon celebrate a half-millennium as a bonded couple. 

Elrond was brought out of his pleasant musings when Erestor addressed Elrohir in a concerned undertone. “Where is your brother?” the chief advisor whispered, indicating the chair that stood empty between himself and Elrond. “It is nearly time to begin.” 

“’Dan will be here, never fear,” Elrohir assured him with a mysterious smile. “In fact...” The elf-knight paused, his words trailing off as the door opened to admit his twin, just as the chimes that signified the council’s start began to sound. 

Elladan’s entrance was neither contrived nor flamboyant, yet every eye in the chamber followed him as he quickly poured himself a goblet of spiced cider and moved to the table, taking not the seat to his father’s right, but the empty chair that sat between Galdor and Thranduil’s chief ambassador. The Mirkwood diplomat struggled to temper his curiosity, allowing himself only what he thought covert glances at the exotic sight beside him. Galdor, however, felt no such compunction, and he turned to stare at the elder twin openly. 

Instead of the expected robes, Elladan wore a simple tunic and leggings of soft moss green suede, the color and style openly reminiscent of the costume Gildor adopted when driven by circumstance to formal dress. His hair, normally plaited in classic Imladrian style to play down its uncommon length, was on full display, a flurry of tiny, unbeaded braids holding the thigh-long mass of ebony strands back from his face. The ever-present mithril cuff that decorated his ear gleamed in remembered harmony with the bracelet of gold and mithril links that circled one wrist, and several rarely-worn rings once again gilded his hands, though none was impressive enough to compete with the ornately worked band of mithril and gold that circled his right forefinger, reaching nearly to his first knuckle as if to declare him well and truly owned by his mate. 

He might have been two centuries removed from his extended ramblings with Gildor’s band, but Elladan returned to the much-loved role of gypsy-elf with the ease of a born wanderer. 

“You are a sight, young one,” Galdor said at last, the twinkle in his eyes taking any affront from the blunt words. “Will all of Imladris soon leave both robes and shears behind?” 

Elladan chuckled at the teasing question, turning to smile at the ancient elf who, over his own countless centuries, had seen two generations of Peredhil twins come to terms with the world. “Nay, Imladris will stand on tradition, my lord.” He glanced at Elrond, then, a trace of defiance in his gaze. “I speak for the wandering company today.” 

“That is rather obvious,” Elrond replied dryly, though he returned Elladan’s tentative smile. “And it seems as good a solution as any to the problem of Gildor’s absence.” 

“It all seems highly irregular, if you ask me,” one of the younger Mirkwood elves objected with a frown. “How can we be sure that Gildor Inglorion would want to be so represented?” 

“I believe,” Elrond said mildly, “that you will find Gildor amenable to anything my son might suggest. They have been bondmates for nearly five centuries.” 

Without waiting for a response, he turned to Erestor. “Shall we begin?” 

**************

Gildor had seldom been happier to see the steep path leading down into his law-father’s hidden refuge. Tired and sore, his lacerated forearm throbbing, the crude sutures pulling and rubbing the abraded skin around the jagged cut - a parting gift of the unseasonable mudslide that had afflicted them in the mountains - Gildor yearned for nothing more than a bath, a healer and a few millennia in his lover’s arms. 

He had been nearly a decade gone from Imladris, the longest that he and Elladan had been apart since their bonding so many years before, and the aching sense of emptiness at times threatened to steal his very sanity. The three centuries immediately following their joining had been idyllic, endless days of cheerfully aimless wandering and glorious nights of dancing, music and breath-stealing passion. Then lengthening shadows had taken their toll, as both had long expected, drawing Elladan back to aid Imladris and pressing Gildor once again into service as the eyes and ears of those who dwelt in realms so far untouched by the gathering darkness. 

“Welcome home, my lord.” 

Lindir’s lyrical voice drew Gildor from his fugue and he dismounted unsteadily, much to the minstrel’s dismay. Casting a critical eye over the bloodstained bandage that wrapped Gildor’s arm, Lindir immediately helped him to the healing halls, leaving the rest of the wanderers in the capable hands of Elrond’s experienced house staff. 

“Shall I fetch Elladan?” Lindir asked anxiously, easing Gildor into the chair he was being waved toward by a concerned healer. “The council will not break for several hours yet.” 

“Nay,” Gildor managed through gritted teeth as the healer carefully cut away the dirtied dressing and loosened sutures from his forearm before flooding the wound with clean water. “I have caused Elrond enough annoyance with my delayed arrival. I will wait until ‘Adan is free.” A few muttered oaths later, his arm was expertly stitched and pristinely bandaged, the throb dulled to a faint pulsing by a potent paste of healing herbs spread generously over the tender skin. 

“If you wish to bathe while you wait, my lord, I will assist you,” the young healer offered sympathetically, as she gathered the soiled dressing and remaining supplies. “The heat of the water will likely refresh you, though your wound should be kept dry.” 

Gildor looked into the spartan bathing chamber that lay off the healing halls, thinking longingly of the richly appointed bath in the suite he shared with Elladan. But his lover was yet in council, and he yearned to be clean _now_. “I would appreciate that, aye,” he answered with a tired smile. 

“I will fetch fresh garments,” Lindir offered, already moving toward the door, “and ask that a meal be sent to your chambers.” Turning to look back at his friend, he grinned broadly. “You will be as good as new ere the council bells ring.” 

***********

Elladan shifted restlessly, his attention diverted from the matters at hand by the faint, niggling anxiety that had assailed him with Gildor’s arrival. He knew his mate both returned and fairly hale, though the echo of pain and exhaustion that had flowed through their bond had nearly drawn him from his seat and into the healing halls. 

Elrohir’s focus, too, wavered and a slight frown marred his face as a shadow of Elladan’s worry brushed his mind at last, despite all his twin’s efforts to contain it. 

_Are you well, ‘Dan?_

Elladan nodded almost imperceptibly. 

_Gildor seemed in pain, but it has eased._

He tilted his head, as though listening, then smiled at his brother. 

_I think he sleeps, now._

Elrohir grinned wolfishly. 

_A shame, that._

The nudge of Glorfindel’s knee brought the elf-knight’s attention back to the table, where several of the visiting diplomats were eyeing him with furrowed brows. Casting an apologetic glance at his father, Elrohir tempered his grin into a more fitting smile, though his eyes still sparkled with both amusement and genuine delight for his brother. He knew, as few did, the toll the last years had taken on Elladan, and felt his twin’s joy and apprehension almost as though they were his own. 

Unaware or unconcerned that their bickering was delaying a reunion already long overdue, the assembled representatives forged ahead into what seemed a certain deadlock. Some insisted that the strength of the elven realms would be best used to secure their own borders, while others argued for a broader effort, to help preserve some semblance of safety on the roads and passes, as well as offer what little protection they could to those who lived outside the strongholds. 

That Elladan knew Gildor’s mind on this particular matter was unquestioned, and he spoke for the broader effort with an eloquence that left Elrond both proud and a bit wary, for Imladris urged a middle road that, while not approaching the insular stance Mirkwood proposed, would admittedly curtail patrols outside the valley proper, leaving both the passes over the Misty Mountains and the divided lands to the west of Imladris more vulnerable. 

As expected, the Dúnedain present stood with Elladan, as did Galdor and his companions, for the safety of those traveling to the Havens was among Círdan’s greatest concerns. Less expected but most welcome support came from one of the junior Mirkwood counselors, who distanced himself from his comrades’ firmly isolationist views to argue that such a tactic would almost surely doom Esgaroth and the surrounding country, destroying trade and costing innocent lives. 

One of Elrond’s expressive eyebrows arched in surprise, and he studied the young elf who seemed so oddly familiar for a moment before glancing questioningly at Erestor, who scribbled a name and pushed it over for his Lord to read. 

_Legolas_

Thranduil’s youngest son, then, though he bore neither token nor circlet to set him apart. 

Elrond nodded his thanks. It took a rare courage to speak one’s conscience against those of far greater age and experience, especially in the tightly contained world of Thranduil’s court. This youngest of the Mirkwood royals, now just past majority, would bear watching. 

Elrohir carefully walked the diplomatic line between father and brother, garnering a grateful smile from Elladan when he proposed that the wandering company’s value as a source of information justified some measure of protection from the better armed and equipped Imladrian forces, perhaps in the form of maintaining vigilance on the mountain passes. He took issue, however, with Elladan’s assertion that the northernmost realms of the Dúnedain – those troubled lands to the west of Imladris - were of equal value, and would have debated the point had he not felt his brother’s attention falter again suddenly, as though Elladan had lost all interest in the proceedings. And perhaps he had. 

_‘Ten years apart,’_ Elrohir thought, _‘warrants an early breaking council.’_

Aloud, Elrohir cleared his throat before addressing the gathering, his pleading gaze fixed on Elrond. “I believe the way may seem clearer tomorrow,” he proposed. “Might we not end today’s talks that all may be refreshed before dinner is set?” 

There were murmurs of agreement – and dissent – from the assembled diplomats, but a glance at Elladan’s hopeful face decided the matter. “We will reconvene mid-morning, then,” Elrond agreed. “I am sure ‘Rohir speaks true, and an evening of relaxation will see us all more fit to discuss such weighty issues.” 

Having decided, the counselors dispersed quickly, glad to put the heavy atmosphere of the debate behind them and enjoy the hospitality for which Imladris was noted. Elladan, however, lingered, a feeling of vague unease shadowing what he had imagined an occasion of purest joy. 

“What ails you, tôren?” 

Elrohir’s quiet question drew only a shrug from his brother. “Such evasion ill becomes you,” the elf-knight chided gently. “Will you not share your worries?” 

“I cannot,” Elladan responded, glancing sharply at the partly open door before meeting his brother’s concerned gaze. 

“Cannot, or _will_ not?” 

“ _Cannot_ ,” the elder twin answered with a sigh. “I cannot put the feeling into words, ‘Roh. For ten years the promise of this day has been my solace. I have yearned for this _moment_ since I sensed his arrival, and yet here I stand, when surely I should be flying to our chambers to greet him.” 

“You are but overanxious,” Elrohir reassured his twin, squeezing Elladan’s shoulder affectionately. “It is only to be expected, after a decade apart.” 

“Aye, perhaps...” Elladan’s voice trailed off, his brow furrowing slightly as he again looked toward the door expectantly. 

Elrohir shook his head, drawing his brother into a warm embrace. “Stop fretting, ‘Dan, and go. Just _go_. All will be well.” 

Elladan did not answer, his attention focused on the chamber’s entrance, and Elrohir followed his brother’s gaze to the figure that stood in the shadows just beyond the door. The newcomer stepped through the doorway, and softly reflected sunlight gleamed on golden braids. 

The elf-knight smiled faintly. “I will leave you, then,” he said, neither expecting nor receiving an answer. Pausing only long enough to squeeze his law-brother’s arm in greeting, Elrohir slipped into the hallway, closing the door firmly behind him. 

Elladan swallowed dryly, taking a hesitant step toward Gildor. “You are here,” he said unnecessarily. “I can scarce believe it.” 

Gildor shook his head, his eyes devouring the sight before him. “Look at you,” he whispered, moving closer until he could reach out to touch Elladan’s hair, tracing the tiny braids in a once-familiar gesture. ”I feel as though I have fallen into the past.” 

“The council...I could not let you...our people...go without voice...” Elladan’s ramblings died away as he took notice of Gildor’s bandaged forearm. “You are injured!” he said in surprise, then his eyes narrowed in displeasure. “What happened? You should have called for me.” 

“’Adan?” 

“The _healer_ should have called for me. I could have seen to your wound...” 

_“’Adan!”_

Elladan blinked at the sharp call, momentarily disconcerted by Gildor’s growing smile. “Aye?” 

_“Hush.”_

Elladan had no chance to protest the amused command. A heartbeat later his mouth was claimed possessively, the kiss filled with both tenderness and a fierce hunger. Gentle hands briefly cradled his face before sliding over his shoulders and down his back to pull him snug against Gildor’s body. A moan of approval sounded in Elladan’s throat and he responded fervently, playfully wresting control of the kiss from his lover for a moment before willingly surrendering it once more. 

At last Gildor pulled away to bury his face in Elladan’s hair, inhaling the crisp, cool scent that had long ago come to mean ‘home’. “Valar, but I have missed you, imp,” he murmured, his fingers tangling in the silk-soft strands as though to thwart an expected escape. “So badly that I thought I might die of it.” 

Elladan tightened his hold wordlessly for a moment. “As I have missed you.” He chuckled, then, his breath warm against Gildor’s neck. “Though some would say I long ago outgrew the title of ‘imp’, you know.” 

“Never,” Gildor said firmly, nuzzling his lover’s ear. “You will ever be ‘imp’ to me, ‘Adan, even when we have been so long in Aman that the millennia lose all meaning.” 

“Do you believe that we shall ever get there?” Elladan asked, shivering as a warm tongue curled around the tip of his ear. “To the Blessed Realm?” 

“Some day we will,” Gildor promised, his hands sliding purposefully down his lover’s back, “and I shall show you everything.” One hand slipped under the soft suede of Elladan’s tunic to dance teasingly across the top of his leggings. “We will walk on the white sands and ride through the wood.” Gildor paused to nip gently at his lover’s throat, worrying the translucent skin until a rosy bruise bloomed under the mark of his teeth. “You will meet my family, and they shall love you nearly as much as I do.” 

Elladan heard the final words through a haze of building desire, a whimper escaping his lips as Gildor’s mouth closed on his throat. A sharp pull on his lacings shook him out of his stupor, and he drew back to stare at his lover with wide, darkened eyes. “What are you doing?” 

“Ten years is not _that_ long, ‘Adan,” Gildor murmured, reaching up to run his thumb along the rim of Elladan’s ear. “Surely you remember...” 

“We are in the council chamber.” Elladan’s voice was wavering, breathless, even to his own ears. He made as though to step back, but found, to his surprise, that the table was now scarcely a hand’s breadth behind. 

“Aye, we are,” Gildor agreed distractedly, licking and nibbling at his lover’s lips. 

“There...there may still be others about,” Elladan managed, though he was no longer sure whether his raised hands were meant to hold Gildor at bay or draw him closer. 

“Mmmhmm...” The noncommittal response turned to a growl of triumph as a final pull loosed Elladan’s lacings, and Gildor muffled his lover’s yelp of surprise with a hungry kiss. 

Elladan’s eyes fluttered closed as skillful fingers unlaced his leggings and pushed them down, opening again at the soft ‘thump’ of knees on the smooth stone floor. The sight of Gildor hovering only a breath away made him weak with anticipation, and Elladan grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself, letting go a hoarse groan as Gildor’s mouth engulfed him eagerly. 

Elladan let his head fall back, biting his own bottom lip painfully in an attempt to silence the pleasured moan building in his chest. Ten years of deprivation and longing were instantly washed away by the warm, wet swirl of Gildor’s tongue, and Elladan gripped the smooth wood beneath his fingers more tightly, his weight settling onto the table’s edge as his breath began to come in short, frantic gasps. _“Wait,”_ he panted, struggling weakly against the hands that held his hips in a firm grasp. “Too soon... _too soon_...”

Gildor pulled away slightly, one hand tugging his own leggings open as he lifted passion-dark eyes to Elladan’s face. “Only a moment too soon, imp,” he rasped, standing in a single smooth motion. “Only a moment.” 

Elladan scarcely had time to whimper in protest before a sure hand replaced the heat of Gildor’s mouth and a pillaging kiss shattered the last of his control, leaving him trembling and dazed in his lover’s protective embrace. 

The hot splash of Elladan’s release against his skin drew a groan of anticipation from Gildor, even as his kiss gentled, soothing and quieting his overwrought lover. Breaking the kiss reluctantly, he pressed his cheek to Elladan’s flushed face. “I love you,” Gildor whispered, his voice rough with wanting. “I have missed you. I have missed _us_.”

Elladan’s still-darkened gaze dropped to the splayed front of Gildor’s hastily unlaced leggings, and he reached out to run a teasing finger over sensitive skin that glistened with the leavings of his own pleasure. Kicking off his boots and the leggings that has fallen to pool around his knees, Elladan turned and pulled his hair forward, throwing a final sensual glance over one shoulder before bracing himself against the table. 

To his surprise, insistent hands closed on his arms, turning him toward his lover once more. 

“No,” Gildor said hoarsely, shoving glassware and scrolls alike haphazardly across the table’s polished surface before gently urging his mate down amid the clutter. “I want to see your face, ‘Adan.” 

There was no avoiding the pain, not with both a decade’s separation and the moment’s impatience to plague him, and Elladan hissed sharply, his back arching in an instinctive attempt to escape the searing burn that seemed to take his very breath. But his pain quickly faded to a slight discomfort under Gildor’s soothing touch and murmured endearments, and Elladan wrapped arms and legs alike around his lover, drawing him close as their bodies molded together, lost in the long-missed dance of their loving. 

Gildor stared raptly down into Elladan’s face, caught in the spell of widely-dilated twilight eyes and the subtle play of both pleasure and pain across his lover’s features, until his own eyes fluttered closed against the surging ecstasy of his own completion. A heartbeat later, a rush of liquid heat spreading between their sweat-slick stomachs caused him to chuckle tiredly as he rolled to his side, Elladan still wrapped snugly in his arms. “The resiliency of youth astounds me yet, imp.” 

Elladan snorted wordlessly, too deeply mired in the warm, drowsy glow granted the completely sated to answer. 

After a long, comfortable silence, Gildor shifted reluctantly, brushing his lips affectionately across Elladan’s forehead before standing and attempting to restore some semblance of order to his clothing. “We have likely pressed our luck far enough. I do not fancy explaining this to Elrond.” 

Elladan stretched lazily, wincing slightly as he rolled up to sit on the table’s edge and ease into his discarded leggings. “Nor do I,” he agreed, surveying the ruinous mess they had made of the usually immaculate council table. He grinned suddenly, a glimpse of the incorrigible elfling of old visible in his eyes as he pulled on his boots. “This calls for wine.” 

Gildor watched in silent confusion as Elladan splashed a generous amount of Imladris’ light golden wine across the tabletop, then spread it around briskly with a linen napkin. 

“There,” Elladan said, tossing the napkin into the dustbin before eyeing the wine-splotched table approvingly. “That will do nicely.” 

Gildor raised one eyebrow in obvious question. 

“It is understandable that the table be sticky with wine,” Elladan explained, a smirk playing around the corners of his mouth. “But not that it be sticky with...” 

“Your point is taken, ‘Adan,” Gildor broke in wryly, ushering his mate toward the door. “We had best make ourselves scarce so the chamber can be cleaned ere someone complains.” 

The lone elf-maid who witnessed their departure smiled affably. “You are finished then, my lords?” 

Elladan paused, staring hard at the cheerful servant, but there was no trace of anything save polite interest in her face. “Aye,” he managed. “We are finished.” 

“Then I will call for help with the cleaning,” she said, bobbing her head respectfully. “A good evening to you both.” 

“And to you,” Elladan replied automatically, his mind still struggling with her ominous greeting. 

Gildor chuckled, then, a sound somewhere between relief and amusement. “Look, ‘Adan,” he said, turning his lover to face the council chamber once more. Elladan stared in confusion for a moment, then began to snicker himself, and soon the sounds of their shared mirth filled the hall. 

There, on the doors that had just closed behind them, was a notice, lettered in Elrohir’s clear, crisp hand: 

_Private Session_

ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE

 

*~*~*~*~*

 


End file.
